Obsession
by Flameboi
Summary: Alternate Universe ending through the eyes of a psychopath. m/m slash


Obsession

> > ****Obsession   

>> 
>> I loved him, you see. More than his   
cunt wife, more than that nutcase Curt Wild, more than all those   
fawning sycophants, more than any of the pathetic fans screaming   
their brains out at his concerts, who didn't give a fuck about   
him, I loved him. HIM. Brian Slade. A.K.A. Maxwell Demon, MY main   
man. I LIVED for him! I would have DIED for him. I saw almost every   
single performance, I sold my car, and my records, and hell yes, I   
sold myself when I had to, so I could follow his tour circuit. You   
can see me, in the film of the Kensington Park concert, front and   
center, right there, pressed up against the stage, staring up at him   
and dying just to catch his eyes, just for a second, just one glance,   
the skinny kid with the long black hair in the Baby's On Fire   
teeshirt. That night ended just like all the others. Not managing to   
fight, beg, or blow my way backstage, and going home to whatever   
flophouse I was crashing in for the night, curling up on some   
stinking mattress and jerking off to his image imprinted on my brain,   
then crying myself to sleep with a longing that hurt so bad I thought   
it was killing me.   
So you might have the slightest   
inkling, how I felt, that terrible, terrible day. I mean, you can't   
really understand, no one could, no one who's not lost their one true   
love, their soul mate, but just so you know it was the worst kind   
of hell. Agony. A thousand times worse. Hearing the gunshot. SEEING   
him, Maxwell Demon, fall, in a puddle of blood, his eyes staring   
straight up at the ceiling, dead, his dead, dead eyes. I suppose my   
voice was one of the ones screaming, because I know that later I was   
so hoarse I could barely whisper, and I know I was one of the ones   
who jumped up on the stage, desperate to get to him, knowing that   
somehow, if only I could reach him, my love would somehow save him. I   
was in such torment I never even felt the billy that the guard swung   
to knock me flying off the stage, never even knew I was unconscious,   
until I was waking up with blood in my eyes out on the pavement.   
It didn't matter. Nothing mattered,   
not anymore. He was dead, and that's all I wanted, too, to be dead,   
to be with my Brian, at last; if I couldn't be with him in life, I'd   
be with him in death. I stumbled to the cheap motel, to my room,   
and pried the blade out of my razor, I didn't care that it was nicked   
and dull, and when I started slashing away at my wrist, over and   
over, the fiery, icy, pain was a relief, because it hurt so much less   
than the ache inside my heart, and I lay down in all that blood   
pouring out of me, whispering over and over though maybe I wasn't   
even making a sound, saying it only in my mind, "I love you Brian,   
wait for me, I love you." Until everything faded black, with an   
afterburner image of a blue haired glitter angel reaching to bring me   
home to his glam heaven.   
I woke up in the intensive care unit   
of St. Agnes Hospital. Apparently, in my distraught grief, I had   
overlooked one small detail- I'd left the door to my room ajar, just   
enough for some busybody old bitch to see the blood and open the   
door, seeing me passed out there, and start screaming. Predictable   
results, cops, ambulance, hospital, etc. I was so damned angry to be   
alive, and so sad, I had failed him, failed my Brian, and it hurt so   
much, god it hurt so much.   
The staff psychiatrist explained that   
I was being transferred to a facility near Leeds, and I didn't give a   
shit, just had to laugh at this little balding man in his rumpled   
suit, I laughed until I cried and then cried until I laughed, and   
then they sedated me, and I woke that time up in the Brookhaven   
Institute. The funny farm, nuthouse, cracker shack, Baby's REALLY   
on fire now, ooh boy YEAH! I didn't say a fucking word to one of   
those bastards, not one. I didn't give a shit what they did to me,   
and I was more than willing to be pumped full of drugs that made the   
world fade out on a grey bliss, didn't care when what I was pumped   
full of was some late night orderly's dick, except when the drugs   
were being really kind, and I thought it was Brian, and then, man, I   
was in heaven. Heaven. Hell, I'd made it after fucking all!   
Until the worst day of all. I said   
the concert when I'd seen him die was the worst? I LIED! No, I was   
wrong. I was a godamned fool sucker like every other sad ass bastard!   
The worst day, sitting in the day room, not even there, not really,   
the television blathering on in the background like always, I never   
heard its drone, wouldn't have heard it that day, except that the   
female announcer's voice said his name. Brian Slade. Maxwell Demon. I   
stood up, rapt, staring at the screen, at his image. And then the   
other words came. Faked. Sham. Scandal. Brian Slade quite alive.   
ALIVE. HE WAS ALIVE AND I WAS IN HELL AND HE HAD LIED!   
LIED TO ME! TO ME! FAKED IT! FAKED IT! FOOLED ME AND   
RUINED EVERYTHING!   
Two months later, and the staff   
review board, after finding me fit to be released, told me they'd   
seldom seen such a remarkable progress towards recovery. I wanted to   
say, Of course not, you stupid wankers, I'm not crazy. Now I just   
give a shit and have a reason to get out. But I kept my mouth shut,   
because I'm not crazy, and I got out.   
I tried. I really did try, once I was   
back in the real world, I tried to forget him, and put it all behind   
me. I did. I went back to the States. Back to Boston, my parents   
house; I took some classes, I got a job as a clerk, and most times,   
or at least, a lot of the times, I forgot about him. I forgot him   
best when I was flying high, I found, or else caught up in the raw,   
here and now nothing else matters pleasure of suck and fuck. I almost   
had a relationship, a couple of times, moved out of my folks place,   
in with a lover, a few times, but it never seemed to work out, and   
I'd be alone again, back at home. I was 'too hard to live with,'   
whatever that means. Jobs too. I'm a hard worker, but something   
always happened. I can't count how many times I got fired.Well, fuck   
them, it wasn't my fault. Besides, there was always another job,   
another dick, another day. Life goes on, right?   
Around 1982, I started to get every   
damn cold and flu that came down the road, and never really got over   
it, it seemed like; finally, because I wasn't able to keep any job,   
with this shit going on, I went to the doctor. Three guesses what   
she told me I had, and the first two don't count. I didn't really   
give a shit. I was dying, so what? I'd really died a long time ago.   
Except, then, I started thinking again. Not good, me thinking,   
because I was thinking about why.Why. Him. Him. Me. Brian. Brian. And   
then the dreams began, and I understood. Understood everything, how   
he had gotten inside my mind, inside my heart and my soul, and ruined   
my life, and all it was worth to him was glitter and lies. I never   
stopped loving him, you understand, but I began to hate him, too,   
once I understood what he had done to me, how he had never cared   
about me, even a little, at all. And then I started to try and track   
him down, because, I wanted to tell him. I wanted him to understand,   
what he had done to me.   
It wasn't easy, and my time was   
running out. Then my mom died (dad had died back in '78) and the   
house was mine. I sold it, and hired Gerald and Abernathy,   
Investigators. They cost an arm and a leg, the best usually does, but   
four months later, I had results. His name was now Tommy Stone. The   
saddest plastic excuse for a rock star to ever parade on stage. I   
knew then, that he wouldn't listen. Even if I could get to him,   
somehow, he'd never be able to understand. So my plan changed. The   
last of my cash, went to buying the clothes, all black, and bribing   
one of the arena morons to let me inside, $5000 is a hell of an   
expensive ticket, but not half as expensive as what I toted in with   
me, the matte black Ruger rifle with the IFR scope that it had taken   
me what felt like ages (tick tock my time is running out!) to track   
down on the street market.   
I laid up there, on the catwalk, for   
hours, barely daring to move, at all, while the audience filed in and   
the concert got under way. I watched him, Tommy Fucking Stone, from   
up there, through the scope, while he put on his pathetic show, and   
there was nothing there, nothing at all left of my Brian, the man I   
had lived and died for. Nothing but bloated plastic in a white suit.   
The cardboard cutout of the man who had destroyed me, but this time,   
there was going to be no fake LIE about it, the lies were all ending   
right now. Pure truth. I sighted in on him one more time. Pulled the   
trigger. Watched the blond hair expand in a spray of red. Put down   
the rifle, and climbed down, surrendering to the police, who slammed   
me to the ground, breaking my nose, spraying my blood all over, and I   
laughed at that, had to. Poison just like he was. Laughed until I   
passed out.   
Now, in the State Hospital, they say   
I haven't got much longer to live, which is why I am leaving this   
statement after refusing to speak about it or defend myself until   
now. And it is all right, ok, just fine and sweet as lipgloss kisses,   
that I'm almost dead, because I did what I needed to do. Now, this   
time, when I die, he will be waiting for me, not the sickening Tommy   
Stone, but my beautiful Brian, my Maxwell Demon, and that's, that's   
more than ok. That's my heaven, because, you see, I love him still. I   
love him still. My main man. Brian.   

>> 
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